


Liebling

by glacis



Category: From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eberbach's mission goes awry. Eroica tries to help. The Mujahideen and the KGB complicate matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liebling

_Liebling, a From Eroica With Love romance by Sue Castle. Set in 1984. Thanks to MG for opening my eyes, Barbara S. for the German, and the fan-translators for teaching me to read right to left. _

"... an entanglement of wire rope and a rose vine is a rather sadistically wonderful combination ..." From Eroica with Love, story #4

 

Major Klaus Heinz Von Dem Eberbach stared grimly through the bars at the garish silk walls and ridiculously over-decorated Persian carpets of his prison and wondered how such a simple mission could have come to such a pass.

He didn't even have Eroica to blame. No. For that, he had Misha.

Secure in the knowledge that he was alone in the tent, Eberbach slumped against the iron bars of his cage and closed his eyes. There was no way to escape; his hands were secured behind his back, the cage was solidly constructed and locked. For the moment, his best plan was to rest. Conserve his strength. Wait for an opening. Unfortunately, such a plan left him no diversion, and with nothing to occupy his busy mind, all he could do was think.

He had two choices. He could allow his thoughts to run, undisciplined, in circles, caught like a rat in a maze. Or he could go over every step of his failed mission, probing for any lesson that could be learned, any way the failure could be salvaged. Not being one to allow himself any breakdown in discipline even under circumstances of captivity and forced inactivity, he closed his eyes and concentrated his thoughts.

 

The Chief was looking disgruntled. This could be a good sign. If he'd been happy, Eberbach would have been wary.

"You've been appointed to the NATO combined unit going to Afghanistan to investigate reported human rights violations by the Soviet military." The rotund little man glared at him. Eberbach glared back.

"When do I leave? With whom do I rendezvous?" Why are you so angry? he thought but kept to himself.

"I didn't recommend you, you know," the Chief grumbled. "The situation is delicate. They need someone who knows how to waltz around diplomatic pitfalls. You barge through the middle of them like a tank."

Eberbach would have smiled at the flattering comparison if he'd been the smiling type. As it was, he barked, "Sir!" The Chief stopped muttering long enough to hand him a file with the familiar red classified striping down the side.

"It's all in here. Keep your eyes open, and watch your back." Eberbach gave him a disbelieving look. When _didn't_ he watch his back? "I mean it. There are reports of experiments going on with Afghan prisoners of war. Mind control experiments being run by the KGB. And there have been sightings of an old enemy of yours."

Eberbach looked up from the sheets in the file he'd been scanning. "The Bear Cub is in Afghanistan?"

"The Pope is Catholic?" the Chief responded rhetorically. Eberbach nodded absently, absorbed once more in details of the mission. "Major."

He responded to the unexpected seriousness in his superior officer's voice by giving him his undivided attention. The round face was somber, and the normally malicious eyes were thoughtful.

"You won't have your alphabets with you, this time. The Soviets will only allow a certain number of investigators, all of high rank. The Mujahideen are in the middle of a Jihad, a holy war, and any Westerner may well be a target. The Soviets are intent on hiding what they're doing and won't hesitate to commit a little murder and cover it up under the category of 'hostile fire'. You'll be surrounded by enemies, with little to no back-up."

"Is there anything worth stealing?" Eberbach asked, straight-faced. The Chief looked at him, confused.

"Not to the best of my knowledge."

"Then the only things I'll have to worry about are Muslim extremists and KGB madmen. I'll be fine." The Chief gave him another confused look. "No Eroica," he explained, then turned on his heel and walked out of the office.

Two weeks later he'd had cause to re-evaluate that opinion.

He'd been paired with a French army officer, another NATO major with less experience than he himself had and an annoyingly naive attitude toward their Soviet hosts. The damned fool actually believed what he was told. Four days into their tour of Soviet camps, Eberbach nearly strangled the idiot Frenchman when he blithely waved off Eberbach's forceful suggestion that they look into the tents behind the medical facility. Washing his hands of the fool, Eberbach went off on his own to do a more thorough job of investigation.

He'd found precisely what he'd expected to find.

The stench of mass death hadn't been strong, so the sheer number of bodies was a surprise. They were, for the most part, fresh, signs of violence vivid on their flesh. Civilians, the majority, from the look of it, if anyone living in an occupied country in the midst of fighting an invading army could be considered civilian. Eyes stared blindly, mouths stretched open in silent screams. Flies buzzed lazily over the dried streaks of blood on arms, legs, torsos, dribbling from ears and noses and eye sockets. Whoever had tortured them had been an expert. Sickening as it was, Eberbach held his composure, forcing himself to get close enough to make out details.

There were women and children as well as young men, with a few old men as well. Shaved patches on skulls and circular burns scattered along their bodies showed where electrodes had been attached, and what appeared to be cattle prods applied. Whatever they had known, they had paid dearly for the knowledge. He leaned forward, respectfully closing the eyes of a child who could have been no more than nine or ten at the time of his death. A voice behind him interrupted his movement.

"Iron Klaus. What an unpleasant surprise."

The gravelly greeting caused him to swing on his heel, magnum in hand. Misha the Bear Cub grinned toothily at him from the shadows at the back of the tent.

"I'm here on official UN business. Why are you here? To squeeze out one more pound of flesh for your masters?"

Misha's grin became, if possible, wider. He didn't answer. Eberbach felt the displacement of air an instant before impact, not time enough to escape the cosh from the man who'd snuck up behind him. His last wavering sight was of the Cub, bending over him, removing his credentials and shoving something thin and hard into his jacket pocket.

When he'd regained consciousness, he was locked in a goat pen.

His captors didn't speak German. Or English. Or French, Dutch, Spanish, Italian, any of the languages with which Klaus was fluent. He'd finally given in and tried Russian. Apparently, his captors knew just enough Russian to recognize the language, and peg anyone who spoke it as an enemy.

When he'd woken from _that_ beating, he'd found himself locked in a cage.

A man was lounging on a cushion, staring at him. Tall, a hundred ninety three centimeters, eighty two kilos, short wavy dark brown hair and brown eyes, dark complexion, closely trimmed beard, excellent physical condition. Air of authority. Eberbach finished his automatic inventory and stared back, forcing his dizziness and nausea to abate through sheer force of will. When he had control of his balance and his stomach, he tried once more to communicate.

"My name is Major Klaus Von Dem Eberbach, with NATO Intelligence, attached to the United Nations investigation team sent here to examine reported human rights violations by the Soviet armed forces against the people of Afghanistan-"

"Your name is Pyotr Sergeyevich Lopakhin, Spetznaz captain, third in command of the experimentation camp near Kalat-us-Siraj from which my soldiers took you, over the bodies of the men, women and children your men tortured to death."

Eberbach stared into the dark, cold eyes of the Mujahideen commander. It was obvious from his expression that the man believed every word he said. All the major could do was shake his head in denial. From the folds of his linen robe, the other man produced a leather wallet.

"Your papers."

"Not mine," Eberbach answered forcefully.

"At least meet your death with some dignity, Captain," the commander sneered at him. Eberbach growled back.

"It's Major! Ich bin Deutscher, goddamnit. I was entrapped by an enemy, a KGB operative. He **wants** you to kill me. Then he can claim that the Mujahideen are responsible for the death of a UN representative!!"

The Afghan stared dispassionately at him. "We shall see. I have sent word to your superiors. If you have value to them, I may ransom you." A sliver of a smile curved his full lips. "Or I may send them your lifeless body as a souvenir of freedom."

With uncanny grace, the rebel commander rose from the cushion and disappeared out the front of the tent in a swirl of draperies. Eberbach watched the flap fall closed over the doorway and cursed to himself in every language he knew -- except Russian.

Three days passed, very slowly. The Mujahideen commander came in once, to tell him with some satisfaction that his 'superiors' hadn't responded. He'd tried telling the man that they weren't _his_ superiors, that they wouldn't respond, and that NATO had to be contacted, but the man simply stared at him as if he was gibbering and left him alone in his cage.

Once a day, two men came to open the iron door. They led him behind the tent and allowed him to relieve himself. One stayed just out of reach; the other stood guard with a semiautomatic rifle aimed at his chest. It was off-putting to say the least, but the thought of having to live in his own soil convinced him to make the best use of his brief break. Unfortunately, the men, thinking him to be Soviet special forces, were extremely vigilant, and no opportunity for escape presented itself.

Twice a day a plate with bread and fruit was shoved through the bars, and a skin-full of water. Once, he tried to use the plate as a weapon. It was twenty four hours before he was fed again. Regretfully, he gave up on that idea as well. His determination to escape never wavered, but his options were narrowing by the day.

On the fifth day, he took his chance with the guards who fed him. The plate was lowered through the bars, and before his guard could withdraw he struck. Swiftly as a snake, Eberbach grabbed the guard's wrist and brought him against the bars, free hand going for the throat. Regarding the second guard fiercely over his captive's shoulder, he barked, "Let me out or I'll break his neck!"

Unfortunately, these ones didn't speak English either. So he barked in Russian. From behind him he heard the click of a trigger cocking, and threw himself aside, losing hold of his captive as he did. The guard took a bullet in the side of the neck, a shot that would have taken Eberbach directly between the shoulder blades if he'd still been holding the man. Mayhem broke loose.

Guards swarmed into the tent, taking up the wounded man and bearing him from the area. The door was opened and a multitude of hands dragged him out, fists beating him down before he had the chance to fight back. He was simply outnumbered. As he went down under the sea of angry soldiers, he cursed his luck, which had been running nothing but bad since this mission had begun.

When he woke up again, he was back in the cage, stiff and bruised from top to bottom, and his hands were shackled behind his back. It was a full day before he was fed or allowed to relieve himself. He needed the full day before he could actually move. His captors had been thorough.

On the eighth night of his captivity, assistance came from an unexpected source. Well, at least he _tried_ to help. As usual, nothing turned out quite the way either of them had hoped.

A shadow moved across the floor of the tent. It paused at the bulk of the commander, sleeping on a pile of rugs less than ten feet from Eberbach's cage, then picked its way with silent caution over to the iron door. Eberbach moved just as silently to greet it.

Bright, laughing blue eyes peered out at him from a pale face surrounded by black cloth. Eroica! Eberbach managed not to exclaim out loud through sheer force of will. The thief raised a finger to his lips and kissed it, warning Eberbach to be quiet and flirting with him at the same time, the pervert. Eberbach growled silently at him.

"I was in Iran, and heard you got in a spot of trouble. Thought I might be able to help." The words were barely breathed. Then those mischievous eyes shifted downward, and all playfulness disappeared as the flirt was subsumed by the professional. Long, slender fingers worked at the lock, and in a matter of moments it was undone. The door began to open under slow, steady pressure.

A hand came over Eroica's shoulder, slamming the door shut again and scaring both Eberbach and Eroica out of half a year's growth.

"AYEE!" Eroica screamed as two large hands grabbed hold of him and threw him to the floor. Eberbach lashed out with his feet, trying to kick the door back open and join the fray, but the latch had caught again, and the commander locked it instantly, pocketing the key and turning his back on the furiously cursing Eberbach.

Eroica scrambled to his feet and headed for the door flap. The commander caught him before he got there, throwing him back to the floor and pinning him down, flat on his back. Eberbach fumed from his cage, unable to help, unable to do a damned thing but watch.

"Who are you and how did you get through my sentries?" the commander demanded. Eroica stared at him, wild-eyed, uncomprehending.

"He doesn't speak Russian," Eberbach called out, in Russian. "He's British," he added in English.

"English, actually," Eroica managed to gasp. The commander had a knee in the middle of his chest, which was probably making it difficult to catch his breath. "Dorian Red Gloria, Earl of Gloria, at your service," he smiled sunnily up at the man holding him down.

The commander stared at him for a long moment. "My name is Mahmud," he finally answered. "Why are you breaking a Spetznaz bastard out of my camp and how did you get in?" The knee eased fractionally.

"Spetznaz?" the Earl asked, bewildered. "I'm rescuing ... ah, I was attempting to rescue a NATO Major. I don't know any Spetznaz."

Mahmud backhanded him. "More lies. You had time to coordinate stories. I have proof." One hand tangled in the heavy golden curls, lifting the Earl's head from the rug. The poor thief had a dazed look on his face. Eberbach could relate.

"No," Eroica protested, hands fluttering uselessly. "No, he's not Soviet, he's a Catholic."

Mahmud stopped in the process of hauling Eroica from the floor. He eyed his captive intently, and an odd expression came across his face. "Tell me why I should not have you shot immediately."

Eroica stared up at him, then did the strangest thing. He appeared to melt over the Afghan's knee. Eberbach made an involuntary disgusted sound in the back of his throat and wanted to close his eyes. But Eroica might well have a plan, and he had to be alert to take advantage of it. He couldn't ignore what was happening, no matter how much it turned his stomach.

The Earl was wrapping his long arms around the commander's shoulders now, moving his body in a sinuous way, eyes huge, a slight smile on his mobile mouth. His body language practically screamed 'Take me!' Mahmud was listening. The commander was just as big a pervert as Eroica was. He buried both hands in Eroica's mop of hair and proceeded to devour his mouth.

When they finally broke for air, Eroica nodded in Eberbach's direction and asked huskily, "Must we do this in front of him? His watching makes me ... nervous."

"Then I will put out his eyes," Mahmud said calmly. Eroica squeaked.

"No, no, no, that's alright, an audience is fine, darling, just fine, no need for any maiming -" The stream of words was cut off as Mahmud kissed him again, taking his mouth like a tank battalion taking a mountain. Not that Eroica was protesting.

Eberbach stared, as morbidly fascinated as if he was watching an accident on the autobahn, as Eroica seduced the Mujahideen commander. The small part of his brain that wasn't screaming at him that even watching such sick, perverted, twisted actions would damn him was busy telling him that one, he was an atheist, and two, if there was a hell, he was already in it, so he might as well remain vigilant and possibly learn something. His body was ignoring his brain completely, and the slow surge of arousal he felt was so shameful he completely denied it, even to himself.

Mahmud wasn't gentle, but he wasn't unnecessarily harsh, either. He stripped Eroica with military efficiency that under other circumstances Eberbach would have admired. Then he stripped himself and lowered his body over Eroica until he was blanketing the man. They were a study in contrasts in the shadowed darkness of the tent. Eroica's skin glowed in the low light, the hint of golden hair along his body catching and reflecting what little light there was, sweat coming up on his skin as he moved. Mahmud was honey gold skin and jet black hair, several centimeters taller than Eroica, and quite a few kilos heavier. They were stretched out with their sides to his cage, and he couldn't have shut them out if he'd tried.

They were making sounds. Disturbing sounds.

Eberbach's stunned gaze traveled the length of the men moving against one another. Mahmud had one hand still buried in Eroica's hair, the other curving over a buttock, drawing their groins together. He caught glimpses of their erections as they ground against one another, the light red rose of Eroica a stark contrast to the deep blush brown of Mahmud.

Eroica's hands were drifting all along Mahmud's body, feathering along his ribs, over his buttocks, ruffling his chest hair. One hand finally drifted between them, gathering their erections in his long fingers. Their thrusting became more frenzied, and the groans and grunts became needier as Eroica climaxed. To Eberbach's vague surprise, Mahmud unclenched his hand from around Eroica's buttock long enough to remove Eroica's hand from his still-rampant erection.

He could smell them. It made his skin itch.

Then Mahmud moved, coming to his knees and shifting over Eroica's torso until the tip of his wet penis tapped at Eroica's mouth. The thief, who'd been sprawled in satiation after his orgasm, opened his eyes and looked up at Mahmud.

"Take it," Mahmud ordered in a low voice. Eroica swallowed. Eberbach's eyes followed the motion of his throat, then stared as those kiss-swollen lips opened and Mahmud pushed his erection into Eroica's mouth. The long white throat moved again, and again, in a practiced rhythm. Eberbach realized he was swallowing in tandem with Eroica's movements and nearly gagged.

It took very little time before Mahmud was stiffening over Eroica's body, shoving himself deeply into Eroica's mouth, and emptying down his throat. Eroica had no choice in the matter of swallowing; it was that, or drown. Droplets of milky fluid were seeping from the corners of his stretched mouth. Mahmud was making tiny satisfied noises, rotating his hips under Eroica's grasp. It was the filthiest thing Eberbach had ever seen.

He refused to admit even to himself that he was so hard he ached.

"You have your uses," Mahmud told Eroica, who smiled cheekily, if unsteadily, up at him. "I won't kill you tonight." Withdrawing from his position over Eroica's torso, he efficiently tied the thief's hands behind him, tossed a rug over him, and lay down to fall into a sated slumber. Eroica stared at him for a long time. Dawn was just beginning to spill into the tent when he was satisfied that the commander was deeply asleep.

Then he made a graceful movement with his shoulders and pulled his now-freed hands from behind him. He tossed a grin over to Eberbach along with a sideways glance through his lashes. Whatever he saw on the major's face froze him in his tracks. His eyes grew wide, and he swallowed, unconsciously licking his lips, removing a trace of salty fluid that lingered there. Eberbach watched the movement like a wolf following prey. The glistening blue eyes grew even wider. Then Eroica shook off the strange paralysis with a shake of his curly head, and glided over to the commander's clothing.

Two seconds of rummaging later, he headed directly to the cage, key ring in hand.

"No!" Eberbach managed to warn, seeing Mahmud rise from the rug like a striking tiger and advance on Eroica. Ducking instinctively, Eroica tossed the ring toward Eberbach.

Mahmud's fist closed over it before it got to him.

"Verdammte Scheisse!" Eberbach growled.

"Shit!" Eroica agreed. Then Mahmud was on him.

The bigger man shook Eroica like a rag doll, blond hair flying around his head, until Eroica was whimpering and unsteady on his feet. "Thief!"

"Yes?" Eroica managed to ask, his voice shaky.

"Do you know what we do to thieves in my country?" Mahmud forced Eroica to his knees and took the thief's right wrist, holding him tightly. With his other hand, Mahmud drew a wickedly curving knife from his pile of clothes. Eroica let out a sharp scream.

"Please!" His body was shaking as much as his voice. "Please don't cut off my hand! I'm begging you!"

"If you cut off his hand you might as well cut out his heart," Eberbach roared into the noise of Eroica's pleas. Mahmud looked over at him. "He can't help what he is. He's a magpie at heart; he sees something shiny and must have it. If you take that from him you may as well take his life."

Eroica looked from captor to captive. "Are you trying to help me or get me killed, Darling?"

Eberbach ignored him, staring at Mahmud. The rage in the dark eyes calmed a little, replaced by a calculating light. "Very well," he said, looking down at Eroica. "I will not take your hand for stealing from me. You shall have another chance. But know this. Your friend -" he nodded toward Eberbach, "is your fealty. If you steal from me again, I will take **his** hand."

Eroica let out an involuntary moan of denial, shaking his head frantically, making an abortive effort to fling his body between the knife and the cage. Mahmud threw the knife back onto his pile of clothing and grabbed a fistful of curls, stopping the uncontrolled movement. "Please, please, no, don't hurt him, please," Eroica cried.

Mahmud continued, his voice implacable. "Your actions will not go unpunished." He jerked Eroica around by the scalp and arm, twisting his hand up behind his back. Eroica cried out again, in pain. Dragging the thief two feet away to one of the few pieces of furniture in the tent, a heavy wooden hassock with a padded cushion, Mahmud threw Eroica face-first over it. With one knee in the small of his back keeping him secured, Mahmud caught up a set of manacles and chained Eroica's wrists to the far legs of the hassock.

Stepping to the side of the tent, Mahmud opened a small chest and withdrew what looked like a miniature bullwhip from its depths. Eberbach growled warning, low in his throat. Eroica, unable to see what was going on behind him, squirmed and mewled protests. Mahmud stepped between his ankles and kicked them far apart, leaving Eroica open and vulnerable to attack. Eberbach tried to swallow, but there was something ... compelling ... about Eroica spread out like that, something that made his mouth dry. Before he could work out what it was, exactly, Mahmud's arm rose and fell.

The lash snapped across the tops of Eroica's thighs, leaving behind a red welt with a thin line of blood across it. Eroica screamed in a combination of pain and shock. His legs curled involuntarily against the side of the hassock, attempting to escape the lash.

"No control," Mahmud said softly, then reached for another length of chain. He pulled Eroica's legs straight and cuffed his ankles, a foot or so of chain lying between them. Then he stepped onto the chain, holding Eroica's body stretched taut with his own body weight.

"Scream, my lion cub," he whispered. The sound made the hair on the back of Eberbach's neck stand up straight. Mahmud then proceeded to lay a crosshatch pattern of welts across Eroica's creamy skin, from his shoulders to the back of his knees.

Eroica did scream.

Eberbach wasn't aware that he'd moved, but somehow his face was pressed into the bars. His mouth was open. He was screaming as well, screaming at Mahmud to stop, to not hurt Dorian, how dare he, he was going to rip him apart. He couldn't hear himself. All he could hear were Eroica's screams.

Mahmud ignored him to concentrate on what he was doing. What he was doing was heartless and calculated. He would lay down several welts, then bend over Eroica's shaking body and caress the heated skin, gentling the spasming muscles and rubbing lightly over the bruises. Eroica's screams would strangle in his throat until they were moans, and Eberbach was appalled to see that Eroica's hips were moving of their own accord during these caresses. The thief was aroused.

How on earth could he be aroused by this ... this barbarity? This deep, sick perversity? Eberbach pressed tighter against the bars, eyes glued to the scene in front of him. His face was hot, his breath coming in harsh pants.

His erection was harder than ever.

He was existing somewhere outside himself. His body's reactions were of no concern, his mind's anger was immaterial. All that mattered was Eroica, and what Mahmud was doing to him, and how Eroica was responding to it.

A kick to the chain between Eroica's ankles, and Mahmud spread the captive's thighs as far apart as they would go. The latticework of welts was concentrated on Eroica's buttocks and thighs now, the tip of the lash flicking between his thighs, biting at the tender skin of his testicles, nipping at the crease between his buttocks. Eroica was past the point of screaming, his voice raw in his throat, moaning unceasingly. His hips were rocking hard against the cushion of the hassock. His face was buried under the fall of his hair.

Eberbach wished he could see it. Wanted to see those eyes. Wanted to drink those moans.

The action of his own hips mirrored Eroica's.

Mahmud finally threw the whip to one side and knelt behind Eroica, hands gripping the reddened and bloody buttocks so tightly the flesh turned white under the bruising. Eberbach had a glimpse of a reddened pucker of flesh and Mahmud's rampant erection before his view was cut off by Mahmud's hips. Not that he needed to see. The initial push tore a rusty scream from Eroica's throat, and it was obvious by the thrusting action of Mahmud's pelvis precisely what he was doing.

Even had it not been, the rhythmic jolts to Eroica's body and the grunts exploding from both men would have made it obvious. Eroica's blood was streaking onto Mahmud's skin, diluted by sweat from both bodies, lubricating their movements. When Mahmud thrust in and yelled something incomprehensible in Persian, Eroica moaned in unison and slammed his hips back into the cradle of Mahmud's pelvis. Eberbach found himself gasping through his own orgasm.

The jolt of it shocked him back to himself.

He stumbled a few steps to the back of his cage, the bars almost comforting against his shoulder blades. Then he slid down into a heap, his knees giving out on him. He stared round-eyed as Mahmud pulled back from Eroica, leaned down to place a shockingly tender kiss to one rounded shoulder, drew an obscenely gentle hand down his quivering side, then threw a robe over the bloodied back. Taking a deep breath, Mahmud silently dressed and walked out of the tent.

Eberbach stared at Eroica. For the longest time, neither man moved. Then one graceful hand unclenched from the fist it had been held in throughout the attack, and with a flick of the wrist, Eroica tossed something into Eberbach's cage. It landed with a jangling thud an inch from his boot.

The key ring.

Acting on instinct, Eberbach leaned forward to scoop up the keys, then halted precipitously. "Scheisse," he grumbled. "Eroica? Can you move?"

The golden head lifted and one hazy blue eye stared wildly in his direction. Deciding he'd gotten as much help as he could expect from the Earl, Eberbach turned his back, stretched his neck to look over his shoulder, and scrabbled at the key ring with his manacled hands. An inordinate amount of time was wasted as he picked it up, dropped it, tried incorrect keys, dropped it again, and finally unlocked his shackles. Sending a silent prayer of thanks to the God of his childhood, he snatched the key ring up and rushed to let himself out.

Making no noise at all, eyes scanning for guards, he executed the contingency escape plan he had worked out the first day of his captivity, making allowances for his unexpected passenger. Grabbing up clothing, he snapped the knots binding Eroica to the hassock and dressed him as if he was a child. Eroica moved sluggishly, trying to help, not saying a word. Refusing to meet Eberbach's eye.

It was just as well. Eberbach had no idea what to say to him. 'Thanks for being a pervert that Afghan pervert liked enough to be taken in'? 'Thanks for allowing yourself to be caught and sexually tortured so that you could steal the key to get me out of that cage'? Not knowing how to say it, he said nothing, and concentrated on escape.

Eroica lurched drunkenly once he was dressed, and Eberbach threw an impatient arm around his back to drag him from the tent. A muffled gasp of pain brought the current state of Eroica's back to the forefront of Eberbach's mind, and he gasped a little himself. "Es tut mir leid. Ich will Sie nicht verletzen," he muttered, then took Eroica's arm and wrapped it tightly around his own waist. "Hold on. This will hurt."

"Get it over with and let's get out of here," Eroica murmured back to him, barely audibly.

Eberbach took him at his word and, ignoring the small involuntary sounds of pain the thief made, they snuck out the side of the tent. In a moment, they made their way through the confusion of the camp to the horses Eberbach had seen from his brief tenure in the goat pen. Ducking behind them and dragging Eroica along with him, he found a sturdy gelding near the back.

"Sorry," he said again, then placed a palm over Eroica's mouth to stifle any possible noise. Hoisting himself onto the horse, he pulled Eroica with him. The Earl moaned, the sound caught by Eberbach's hand. He then draped Eroica on his stomach across Eberbach's knees. It was the only way the major could think to hold the man without aggravating his injuries even further.

Keeping his head down, bending protectively over the Earl's body, he picked the way out of the camp. To their great good fortune, the troops' attention was caught by an outcry from the commander's tent. Their escape had been noted. Taking advantage of the confusion, Eberbach dug his heels into the horse's ribs and they headed for the hilly country behind the camp.

The adrenaline rush from the danger was a welcome distraction from the smell of blood, semen and sweat, covering but not completely masking the scent of roses from the body of the man jostling on his lap. He deliberately blanked his mind of anything but the need to be hyper-alert to make a successful escape. He hoped that Eroica had passed out. It would be less painful for the thief.

Also, if that were so, he wouldn't have to explain his erection pressing into Eroica's belly. He'd just as soon try to avoid such explanations, since he didn't want to hear them himself.

Several hours later the horse was tiring, Eroica was waking up, and Eberbach was lost. Estimating which direction he'd been taken when he was unconscious, drawing on some place names his captors had dropped, he had placed their location to be somewhere north of Jalalabad, east of the Khyber Pass. There was a temporary UN headquarters at Peshawar, just over the border into Pakistan. If they could make it there, without running into hostile Soviet troops or -- given his lack of papers and his ability to speak Russian -- hostile Mujahideen, they would be fine.

As expected, their luck was rotten. The horse stumbled to a stop as uniformed men stepped from the brush and aimed rifles at them.

"You must have at least nine lives, Iron Klaus," a much-hated voice called out cheerfully.

"If you kill us here, Misha, the KGB won't be able to blame the Mujahideen." He glared wearily down at his nemesis.

Whatever the mad Russian might have said in response was drowned out by the utterly unexpected scream of war cries all around them. Eberbach reacted instinctively again, kicking away from the rearing horse, wrapping his arms around Eroica's waist and rolling them both away from the center of the cross-fire.

The Soviet troops were yelling at one another and at the freedom fighters who swooped down on them seemingly out of nowhere. Eberbach looked around wildly for a gun, any sort of gun, but there were none within reach. Ducking his head to avoid a ricochet, he curled himself around Eroica and kept them both as covered as he could.

The firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Eberbach risked a glance, to see a Mujahideen commander he knew all too well glaring over a raised rifle at an unarmed Misha the Cub, who was glaring right back at him. Mahmud barked a question at Misha. Misha laughed. Luckily, it was in Russian, so Eberbach could follow it.

"Is he yours? Or is he truly NATO?"

"What do you think?"

"We do not do the dirty work for those such as you!"

Eberbach had had quite enough. He bellowed, "I'm with the UN delegation, goddamnit! I **told** you they wouldn't ransom me because I don't belong to them!"

Three Afghan soldiers surrounded Misha, pushing him further away from their commander. Mahmud lowered his rifle and walked over to where Eberbach was curled protectively around Eroica.

Strangely enough, the thief still hadn't said a word. Eberbach snuck a quick glance to make sure he was conscious. Eroica was staring at him, eyes huge, face somber. Eberbach swallowed. Unwrapping his arms from around Eroica's torso, he pulled himself upright. He would meet Mahmud face to face, not sprawled at his feet like a supplicant.

Mahmud glared at him, fierce as a hawk, then stared down at Eroica, who was lying on his side, arms wrapped around himself, clutching at the robe draped around him. The commander took a deep breath and returned his glare to Eberbach. "You, we don't need. Go back to your people. Tell them what you've seen. Don't let the Soviet bastards catch you again." He gestured at Eroica. "Him, I keep."

Deep inside Eberbach's gut, something gave with the stinging recoil of snapped wire. His surroundings disappeared, and his vision narrowed to the arrogant pervert who dared to claim Eroica. No longer aware of the dozen or so rifles aimed at his head, or the few Soviet soldiers still alive who were watching, or even Misha, chuckling lewdly in the background, he saw nothing, heard nothing but the challenge in Mahmud's eyes and voice.

"The hell you will," he growled, shoving himself between them. Several of the rifles trained on him were now cocked. He didn't even hear them. "He's mine. Er gehört mir! You will not touch him, you will fucking well keep your filthy hands off him. You will never hurt him again. No one will ever hurt him again. He is **MINE**."

With each word, he'd gotten closer and closer, until he was screaming the final words in Mahmud's face, ferocious in his claiming. Mahmud barked something over his shoulder at the Mujahideen troops, and those who were targeting Eberbach trained their rifles on the Soviets instead. Then Mahmud swung at Eberbach.

The world snapped into place around the two of them, catching them in a bubble of violent action and counter-action. The air sang around Eberbach as he gave himself up to all the frustration and anger that had plagued him since his capture, doubled with the need to avenge what had been done to Eroica.

The need to violently expunge his own reaction to what had happened to Eroica.

Mahmud was bigger than Eberbach, and tough, and well trained. Eberbach was insane with rage and the need to protect his property. It was an even match.

For long moments, Eberbach was aware of nothing but his fists, impacting flesh, of the creak of bone as punches landed on his own body. Of the taste of blood on his tongue from a split lip, and the sting of sweat in his eyes. The warmth of muscles moving in combat, and the fierce sweet joy of beating the holy hell out of the man who'd tormented him, hurt his Eroica, and then had the audacity to try to take Eroica away from him.

He didn't even feel the blows he took. He only stopped when a cold small circle of metal was placed to his temple and a rough voice said, in broken English, "Stop or die."

The red haze cleared from his vision and he saw Mahmud, unconscious underneath him. One of the Mujahideen soldiers had a pistol to Eberbach's head. He froze. Then he carefully removed his hands from their death grip around Mahmud's throat and sat back on his heels.

The Mujahideen withdrew his pistol. "Commander said you live. Now go."

Without a word, Eberbach turned from Mahmud. Reached out a hand to help Eroica to his feet. Turned toward their horse, then swerved and headed for one of the Soviet jeeps he could see beyond the brush.

Behind him, he heard Misha say, laughing, "So much for hating the pervert, eh, Major? Yours, indeed." Then the sounds of scuffling and gunshots. Eberbach glanced over his shoulder. The Soviets were fighting the Mujahideen again, both with weapons and hand to hand. With any luck, Misha wouldn't survive.

Not that he'd _had_ any luck on this mission.

A tiny whimper brought him back to himself just as he was stuffing Eroica into the passenger seat and climbing into the Jeep himself. Eroica was squirming on the hard seat, but his obvious discomfort wasn't what caught Eberbach's attention. It was the expression on his face.

Confusion. Disbelief.

Fear.

Directed at him, Eberbach. It confused him, in turn.

The sounds of fighting behind them intensified, and Eberbach shook his head. He'd sort the Earl out later. First they had to get the hell away from here.

"Get in the back and curl up on the seat. It won't be comfortable but it will be more bearable than bouncing around on your butt." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the back and Eroica hauled himself into the back seat without another sound. Such silent obedience was unheard of, and Eberbach spared a thought to wonder just how badly Eroica was hurt. Then he shelved that thought for later consideration as well, and gunned the engine.

There was a squeak of protest from the back. Followed by another, quieter one for each bump and hole they hit on the dirt track masquerading as a road. Eberbach ignored them. If he'd paid attention to them he'd have had to think about why the tiny sounds made his cheeks flush. And he wasn't about to acknowledge that, either.

Less than an hour later they pulled into a UN camp. Vestiges of madness were still clinging to Eberbach's brain, because when one of the soldiers attempted to assist Eroica from the back of the Jeep, Eberbach snarled at him. The soldier nearly tripped over his boots backing off. Eberbach pulled Eroica from the seat, steadying him with one hand and pulling the robe closer around him with the other.

"I'm Major Eberbach. I have important information on KGB activity in the area. Take us to your commander immediately," he bellowed at the top of his lungs. It had the usual effect of stopping all activity in the area and sending underlings scurrying. Beside him, Eroica swayed. Eberbach slid his arms under Eroica's knees and behind his shoulders, changing grip mid-lift to lay the man over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. With all the weight on his stomach, it would spare Eroica more pain on his abused back.

Burden settled comfortably, Eberbach marched past several gawking soldiers toward the command and control tent. An orderly hurried to announce him. The British colonel who greeted him looked nonplused. Eberbach didn't let that stop him. He never let the stupefaction of his superiors interfere with the execution of his duty.

The briefing was short, loud, and to the point. It covered all the salient points of the dead Afghan civilians he'd found, Misha the Bear Cub's treachery and Eberbach's subsequent imprisonment, included Eroica's victorious attempt to free him, without referring to any sexual details whatsoever, and ended with the combat between Mahmud's Mujahideen troops and the Soviet detachment under the command of the KGB.

The British colonel's mouth eventually closed, but the befuddled look never quite disappeared. Into the silence that had fallen at the end of his report, Eberbach snapped, "Gut! We need a tent and medical supplies. Immediately." The colonel's mouth began to open and Eberbach nodded sideways at Eroica's still body, draped over his right shoulder. "He was damaged in the rescue."

"Take him to the medics," the colonel tried to suggest.

"Nein! I will deal with him! Give us a tent and a medical kit." Eberbach glared at the colonel. "Now." He took a deep breath. "Sir," he added belatedly, in a voice barely a notch below his normal bellow.

The colonel gave up and gave in. Ten minutes later Eberbach was lowering Eroica onto a pile of blankets, taking great care not to hurt him further, now that his duty was finished and he could take the time to take such care. Antiseptic salve in hand, warm water and washing cloths beside him, he reached over to peel the robe from Eroica's back.

The Earl recoiled, rolling away from him, gasping with pain.

"Eroica?" Eberbach leaned over him, one hand pinning his shoulder to keep him still. "Dorian?" he asked, more gently.

Gradually, the tousled head lifted and he saw the miserable expression on the finely drawn features. Eroica looked exhausted, with fine lines running beside his mouth and etched at the corners of his eyes. The normal sparkling blue was dimmed, cloudy with pain and confusion.

And fear.

It was still there.

Not understanding why now, of all times, Eroica should actually be afraid of him, when he'd never been afraid of him in the past -- even when he _should_ have been -- Eberbach reached out tentatively.

Eroica flinched.

Eberbach froze.

"What do you want?" the Earl whispered, the sound a tortured sibilance from his throat.

"To help you," Eberbach responded immediately. "I need to clean your wounds, Eroica. If they become infected, you could become very ill." He paused, staring down into the Earl's widening eyes. "You could scar." His hand lowered of its own accord and traced the path of one curl, falling across Eroica's face. "You should not be scarred. It's not ... suitable."

"Suitable?" Eroica asked. The fear was fading, but the normal flirtation hadn't returned. There was only more confusion in his expression.

"Your skin ..." Eberbach's voice trailed off. "Silk shouldn't be scarred." He had _no_ idea where that had come from. But now that the lock was off his tongue, it had a mind of its own, and he couldn't stop the words from flowing off it short of biting it off. "You were not meant to bleed. You're no soldier. You're a thief, a rogue, a chameleon, a spirit. You were not meant to be scarred. Pain should not touch you." He swallowed, his hand moving from tracing the curls to clenching in them, pulling the proud head back against the blankets. "You responded when he hurt you. You climaxed. When he fucked you."

"Not when he hurt me," Eroica whispered. "For you, Darling. I did it for you. I love you."

Eberbach's fingers tightened in the thick mass of hair, and he watched with a curiously detached air as Eroica arched under his fist. A muffled whimper of pain as the thief's shoulders ground into the harsh wool brought a matching gasp to his own lips. Then his head was moving, and his face was buried against that long neck, his mouth open as his teeth worried at the fine-grained skin and curved tendon.

The robe parted, and hands were working at the buttons of his uniform. His, the Earl's, he didn't know, didn't care. A strong thigh insinuated itself against his groin, rubbing, pressing, and he gasped again, biting down harder on the soft skin.

His chest was bare, air currents hot against him, then Eroica's skin, even hotter, and his belt was unbuckled, and his flies were undone. The world tilted, and he was staring up, not down, and intense blue eyes were staring down, not up. A fall of gold filtered the sunlight around the edges of his vision.

Elegant hands that were stronger than they looked were cupping the back of his skull, and a mouth that had laughed at him, flirted with him, told him he was loved, took his own. He couldn't remember ever being kissed, not just with this wave of passion, but at all, in his entire life. Couldn't remember the rush of blood under his skin and the ripple of energy through his entire body. Couldn't remember ever being overtaken and over-run and conquered without a sign of a fight.

His feet were trapped, trouser legs entangled around his boots. His hands were trapped, caught up in that web of golden hair. His hips were trapped, as strong thighs captured him. His phallus was trapped, as hot flesh enfolded him, a vise of butter-soft heat that wrung moans from them both. His heart was trapped, as the fear and confusion in the blue eyes above him were swamped with a light he had never allowed himself to see before.

God damn us both, he thought, as his mind exploded along with his body. But you are mine. And I am yours.

When the world righted itself, he eased a nearly-unconscious Eroica from atop him. Arranged him flat on his stomach. Washed and dressed his wounds, lingering along the edges of the welts, dipping his head to trace the blood with his tongue. His mind replayed the beating he'd given the Mujahideen commander, and he wished for the thousandth time that it had been his blood spilled, not Eroica's.

He leaned forward to kiss the exact spot on one rounded shoulder that Mahmud had kissed. Ran his hand defiantly along the lean sides, repeatedly over the soft skin at the flanks, gently over one rounded buttock. Reclaimed his property.

"Liebling," he whispered as he wrapped them both in a clean army blanket, and held the thief who'd taken his heart from him, without his ever knowing he'd had one to be stolen.

Not that he'd ever call Eroica 'darling' when the man was awake to hear it. That was the Earl's game, not his. He was gone, but not that far gone.

Never that far gone.

fin

"There's a ghastly romanticism in the blood of an iron man." From Eroica with Love, #9 The Alaskan Front (yes, there are at _least_ two meanings buried in that quote)


End file.
